a little princess
by Michi the Killer
Summary: The only thing you can rely on is that you can't rely on anything. Mitsuko knows what it means to be a good girl. MitsukoNoriko


a little princess

- - - - -

The boys tell you that you're pretty, that you're beautiful, that you're the hottest girl that they've ever met, but the words slide right off of you and onto the bed, the floor, the grassy, earthy ground. They never really say it to you, anyway, but rather remark to themselves or try to shove it into your ear with their rough lips and tongues. Their breath is sour, like Tokyo heat in the middle of summer.

_There's Noriko with raindrops drip-drip-dripping down her perfect smooth skin, her hair silky and slick. She's a little princess with two noble princes protecting her. Her skin is very pale, maybe a little raised with goosebumps in the cold, and it probably doesn't have fingerprints all over it._

They never really look at you when they climb on top of you. They can only see what they want to see, your calm and lovely face, your perfect white breasts, your lovely body limp and warm and compliant. You moan prettily for them and only move the ways they want you to move.

Noriko is the little princess doll that you saw all the time in the store window and kind-of really wanted. All the other girls in your class had dolls, but that one was the nicest. You tugged on Mother's hand and asked for it once and she yelled at you. You started to cry and she slapped you. She told you, "we don't have money for stupid toys" right before she took you into the grocery and she bought another bottle. You never asked Mother for anything again.

Good girls don't cry.

They think they're pulling all your strings, but they're the ones getting all tangled up. They don't make love to you.

Love isn't new clothes or new toys. Love is Mother's kisses on your cheek, a bit too warm, a bit too heavy, a little cloying, a little sticky. That dizzying smell became familiar until you never even noticed it anymore.

It wasn't until you got a little older that you learned about things like _sake_, beer, or vodka.

The other girls had mommies or daddies to pick them up from school. They got new dolls and frosted cakes for their birthdays. It used to make your little throat feel tight and your eyes kind of wet, but then you got bigger, you got stronger. You walked home from school alone.

You were the only little girl in your class that smelled funny. Alcohol-soaked crushed-dream-encrusted broken heart.

_Little girl, little girl_, the men used to call you. _Pretty little girl._ When you got older, they called you beautiful, darling, _oneechan_. You changed but the men all stayed the same.

Every day on your way home from school, you passed that window. Stupid doll sitting on top of a cushion, smiling so serenely, dressed up so prettily. I don't want you, you told yourself every time you saw her. You're ugly and stupid and I hate you.

You would sometimes find pieces of miniature clothing on the floor of your closet or in your drawer. Here's a shirt, there's a skirt. Most of the time you could only find one sock. You don't know where all the shoes went.

That stupid doll in the store, she made all your dolls at home look ugly. They were all too ugly, ugly and naked.

You tried to play with the other girls. They wanted to play house, and your dolls always had to be the daddies or the boyfriends because their dolls were far too pretty with pretty new dresses to be boys.

You cut their hair with your little safety scissors, and they looked like boys with makeup on. Not pretty or new enough to be proper girls, too sissy and girly to be men.

This is why you can't have nice things.

So you stole the other girl's dolls. You took the clothes off. You tore their heads off. The little girl, your classmate, would start to cry and the wailing shivered and tickled inside you. The tears and snot streaming down their purpling faces made them so ugly. Silly girls. Silly, stupid girls.

They always cried. That's how you knew they were bad girls.

Good girls are quiet and don't make a sound. Good girls keep their mouths shut, hush, and don't fuss even when the men touch them in squirmy, funny-feeling places.

Your dresses were only clean when Mother remembered to wash them.

"Be good for Uncle," Mother would say.

The first time, you tried to run away, you tried to kick and scream and shout. You called for Mommy and you cried. Mother had laid her head down on the table, glass still in her hand, and that usually meant she had sung herself a lullaby and tucked herself in for the night. He called you "my little princess" and his hands were large and like flaking rice paper, but harder. His face was sort of smooth, little black prickles just starting to penetrate through his skin. He smelled nice but it wasn't what you thought daddies smelled like and the smell grabbed you and spun you around in circles too, too fast. You threw up all over his nice leather businessman shoes.

His mouth was rough. His lips were chapped.

The next day, there was that Princess doll sitting on the kitchen table on a throne of empty glasses and broken bottles.

_(And there's Noriko sitting in the rain on a throne of twigs and branches. Her skin is probably smooth and white and even as plastic limbs. Between her legs, it's just another smooth patch, indistinct. You're sure she doesn't have a single scratch on her. Her clothes are wet and they need to be taken off, she needs to be dressed up in something much prettier._

_Could you kiss her? Could you rip her open with your mouth? Could you feel her in all her indistinct places, make her walk, make her talk, make her scream?_

_Little Princess, you could call her, and brush her hair, her hair like water running down your face. Sweet Little Princess.)_

You were so happy with your Princess doll. Even when you hated her so much, there was a feeling that bubbled up inside when you grabbed her and held her hard unyielding body against your heartbeat.

And the first time you played with her, you took off all her clothes. Then you cut her hair short and spiky, bald in some spots. The rest stood up in funny patches all over. You drew all over her lovely, perfect face, scratched up her white arms, and, finally, you popped her head off.

--end--


End file.
